Dusty sills of half-peeled fruit.
Phonebooks stir in subway draughts.
Paintings fade, the wall’s soft rippling.
A blanker page of acres turns.
What home’s rapport of flesh and glass
could last through such an acid age?
In the night street’s rich ellipsis,
your window darkens, one more dot.
Thomas Sorensen is currently enjoying a short interval between his Ph.D. and postdoctoral fellowship, both in English literature. His poetry is forthcoming or has previously appeared in Variant Lit, Concision, Angel Rust, filling Station, and The Dalhousie Review, among other venues.